Throwing in the towel
Back in June I was assigned Clarissa, Samuel Richardson's epistolary novel published in 1748. Some critics consider it a great novel, even "the greatest novel of the 18th century" (though in my opinion it does not remotely approach Tom Jones). I struggled for several months to read Clarissa, but it has defeated me. I have read only about a quarter of it, and I know I will read no further. It is an extremely long book (according to Wikipedia it is, at about a million words, the longest novel written in English). I do not have a problem with long novels, nor do I have a problem with the eighteenth century writing style. The problem for me is the artificiality of the epistolary form which, combined with the tedious length of most of the letters, makes the whole account completely unconvincing, with no payoff that I have found for the departure from any semblance of realism. Add to that the endless repetitions and the snail's pace of the story, and the result is a book I can no longer bring myself to pick up. My heart sinks at the thought of hundreds and hundreds of pages still to go.
I have enjoyed being involved in the 1001 books challenge, and have read some things I probably would not have read otherwise, as well as some I didn't even know about. I'd be glad for another assignment. I hope my giving up on Clarissa will not disqualify me from further participation.
I have enjoyed being involved in the 1001 books challenge, and have read some things I probably would not have read otherwise, as well as some I didn't even know about. I'd be glad for another assignment. I hope my giving up on Clarissa will not disqualify me from further participation.